See This Through

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, locations, and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling and affiliates.

Author's Note: This can hardly be called a “re-write” of Half-Blood Prince. I believe J.K.R's story is inimitable, and I only aspire to use some concepts of the sixth instalment to flesh out my version of Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts.

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The constant drone of rain hitting earth echoed around the large, square houses of Privet Drive; lawns that were parched and brown all of the previous summer lay emerald green and flooded. Sullen, depressed and angry inhabitants of the prestigious street cursed the unrelenting weather for disrupting their normally nosy ways of life and trapping them within the confines of their perfectly kept homes. It had not once ceased to rain since Harry Potter's return from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it was now July 30^th, the day before his sixteenth birthday.

If the neighbours were angry and depressed, no words could describe the thin, black-haired teenage wizard's current state as he lay upon his mattress watching but not truly seeing the raindrops pelt his window. Ever since the disastrous end of Harry's fifth year, time seemed to move at an unrealistically slow pace. He often found himself spending entire days in the small capacity of his room, not moving from his place on the bed as he silently relived the past year and wondered what was in store for him this upcoming term.

Fortunately for Harry, although he'd never admit it out loud, the Dursleys provided some semblance of relief from his own mind. Vernon and Dudley Dursley went about their business in the same manner they had every day of their existence, and the sheer normalcy of it all was an odd comfort for the troubled boy. Petunia Dursley, however, seemed to pay closer attention to Harry since his return in June; and while she didn't directly address him, he did note the strange expressions that occasionally crossed her bony face when she noticed him sulking around the house.

Harry rolled onto his back and caught sight of a stack of unopened letters on his untidy desk. Sighing, he stood, rearranged his glasses, and stalked over to the pile while stretching his arms. He scowled at the handwriting on the first envelope of the pile; the silver ink and graceful loops of the letters indicated who this note was from, and Harry was not interested in anything Headmaster Albus Dumbledore had to say. A quick scan of the remaining parchment envelopes revealed one from Remus Lupin, and one from Ron Weasley, his best friend. Harry frowned when he didn't see any letters from Hermione, his other best friend, but his downcast expression disappeared immediately when a dishevelled Hedwig tapped his window.

“Hedwig, you're back!” Harry exclaimed as he hastily opened the latch to allow the soaking wet owl into the room. An icy blast of wind and rain met his face before he could close the window and he swore under his breath as Hedwig perched herself on the edge of the desk. “Have you brought me anything, then?” The snowy owl ruffled her feathers and stuck out a leg where Harry saw a tightly rolled piece of parchment was carefully attached. He quickly untied the letter and felt his stomach give an unnatural leap when he recognized the neat handwriting of Hermione Granger.

Dear Harry,

I'm so sorry for not writing to you sooner, but my parents and I have been on holiday in Spain (a fascinating country, really, loads of wizarding history) and I've had no means of sending you any post. I've just arrived at Ron's to find Hedwig waiting in Ginny's bedroom as if she knew I'd be there.

To be perfectly honest with you, I'm not quite sure what to write. This is now the third letter I've written; every time I try to say what's on my mind it comes out sounding completely crass. I can only hope you're all right at the moment and that I'll see you soon. I'd rather talk in person; that way you won't be subjected to my poor attempts to write you a decent letter.

Happy birthday, Harry, in case I don't see or hear from you by then. I have your present with me; I wouldn't trust any owl with it in the current weather.

Love from,

Hermione

Harry reread the letter before placing it on top of the other papers and immediately opening his desk drawer in search of parchment and a quill. Once he had both in hand, he cleared a small space and sat down in preparation to draft a reply. However, when he found himself poised to write, nothing came to mind. He could tell Hermione that he was fine and everything was well, but his stomach lurched unpleasantly when he even thought of telling her such a big lie; hardly anything was fine in his life at the moment. How could things be all right when he had just lost his godfather and come close to losing his friends? Harry's stomach faltered yet again and he swallowed a lump in his throat as the image of Sirius' body slowly falling through the black veil played for the thousandth time in his mind. The familiar guilt and pain swelled and he soon found himself holding his head in his hands as he valiantly fought off the overwhelming grief. It was during moments like this that Harry most longed to be alone yet craved company at the same time. He rubbed his tired eyes and cast one last lingering look at Hermione's letter before leaning over his own blank piece of parchment and lowering his quill to the paper.

It took Harry nearly a full hour to write one of the shortest letters he'd ever sent to Hermione. Once he threw down his quill and leant back in his chair, he understood how she felt when she wrote about how hard it was to find the right words. He looked over the finished product as he absentmindedly cracked his knuckles.

Hermione,

Don't worry about not writing sooner; you shouldn't have to bother with owl post when you're on holiday. I hope you had an all right time in Spain; I'm sure the weather there was much nicer than England's.

Maybe I'll see you soon and we can talk then.

Thank you for your letter,

Harry

“D'you reckon you're ready to head out again, girl?” he asked Hedwig. She hooted her reply and flew over to his chair from her perch. Harry attached the small piece of parchment to the owl's leg and was about to send her off when he noticed Ron's unopened letter. “One second,” he muttered and reached for the envelope. He tore it open and hurriedly read through Ron's untidy scrawl.

Harry -

Hope everything's all right with you at the Muggles' place; Fred and George have been making all kinds of threats, so if anything's wrong, I'll let them have at it. Hermione will be arriving tomorrow; she was on holiday in Spain with her family. I haven't heard from her all summer, though, have you? She's probably been off at some famous historical site learning about the Spanish wizarding population's uses for dragon blood or whatever.

I'm really sorry about what happened in June, mate, but I don't reckon a letter is the best way to talk about it. Actually, knowing you, we'll probably never talk about it so I guess I should make it clear in here that I'm sorry (again) and I hope you're okay.

Keep your chin up,

Ron

Harry smiled slightly at Ron's most likely accurate description of Hermione's trip and scribbled a quick reply thanking him and telling him that he had indeed heard from Hermione, even though Ron would already be with her by the time he got his letter. His smile faded into a slight frown and his jaw clenched as he thought of the two of them together without him, but a shrill hoot from Hedwig caused Harry to jump and forget about that for the time being. He attached the second letter to the owl's leg and carried her to the window where he quickly let her out before the cold wind could reach his face. Harry made to lie down on his bed once again but the piercing voice of Aunt Petunia interrupted his plans.

“Time for dinner!” she called from downstairs. Harry usually passed on meals with the Dursleys and snuck into the kitchen at night for a snack, but his stomach gave a mighty growl right then. He glanced into the stormy sky once again before he slowly made his way to the kitchen.

He was met with the unsightly picture of Vernon and Dudley shovelling food into their mouths at an almost inhuman speed as they watched television with expressionless eyes. Even Petunia looked disgusted and pained, as if she was trying - and failing - to ignore her husband and son's eating. She looked up just as Harry moved forward toward his chair and raised an eyebrow when she took in his appearance.

He had never been one to care about how he looked, but Harry supposed he was taking this attitude a bit too far. Dudley's old clothes were filthy from overuse. His hair was an absolute nightmare and he had gotten, if possible, even paler from spending over a month indoors. Harry scowled at his Aunt in response to her look and dropped into one of the kitchen table's chairs. He was about to reach for a plate when Uncle Vernon startled him.

“Clean yourself up once in awhile, boy!” he barked with a full mouth of food. “He needs a haircut, Petunia, there's no way around it this time. It's a rat's nest!” Harry didn't even look at him as he absently nodded his assent and filled up his plate with dinner. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Petunia staring at him with her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. He raised his eyes to meet hers but she merely shook her head and returned to her plate. Harry bolted down his food and left the kitchen in order to return to his room, but he was only half way up the stairs when Petunia's shrill voice called out to him.

“I'll be doing the laundry tonight; have your clothes in the utility room by seven, they're filthy.” She paused to eye him with her usual look of contempt before continuing, “I need to run to the store for groceries tomorrow as well; you'll come with me and we'll make a short stop at the barber's.”

“Fine,” Harry deadpanned before he turned and continued scaling the stairs. He figured a haircut was a better birthday present than anything the Dursleys would consciously give him.

“I know what happened,” she said, her voice lowered to a near whisper. Harry froze but did not turn to look at her. He had no idea how it was possible she could be talking about the events of last June; he'd hardly spoken to anyone in the household since his return. “Your headmaster sent me a letter last month about Sirius Black.” At this he spun around so quickly that he almost lost his balance and toppled down the stairs.

“What?” Harry spluttered as he stared at her incredulously. She walked around the banister to stand at the foot of the staircase.

“You heard me,” she impatiently snapped, “He told me how you and your friends from that school rushed into some department in a misguided attempt to save him. I had no idea what he was going on about, as usual, but he mentioned…” she trailed off and looked uneasy as she glanced about the living room.

“Voldemort?” offered Harry. His knuckles were white from gripping the railing so tightly and he felt decidedly off-balanced, as if he would fall over at any given moment.

“He mentioned something about a connection.” Harry was shocked by how much Aunt Petunia actually knew about him and Voldemort, but what surprised him the most was that she was actually speaking about it. He opened his mouth to say just as much but she cut him off.

“I don't pretend to understand or know what it is you do there, but I feel obligated to tell you to - to be careful. Don't get yourself blown up.” Harry wondered if he'd unknowingly fallen asleep in his bedroom and was currently immersed in a truly strange dream. Aunt Petunia had never shown one ounce of interest in his life at Hogwarts, and now she was talking about Sirius, Voldemort, and warning him to be careful and not die.

“What - did Dumbledore ask - why are you telling me this?” Not the most polite thing he could have said, but Harry needed to know what caused her to speak so civilly. She met his eyes for a brief moment before she cast a dark look at his scar.

“Too many Potters have died.” And with that she turned and walked back into the kitchen leaving a stunned Harry standing in the middle of the staircase.

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Hours later, when darkness had completely fallen and the starless sky still leaked rain, Harry was shocked to find midnight had already come and gone as he glanced at the small clock. He silently wished himself a not-so-happy birthday and dropped to his knees on the floor in order to wrench open the loose floorboard in search of food. Harry was half way under his bed reaching for the board when the loud doorbell rang. He jumped and smashed his head on the bed frame with a dull thud. With a mixture of anger and panic, he scrambled to his feet and dove for his wand before he whipped around and found himself face to face with a frighteningly pale, pyjama-clad Petunia.

“They're here for you,” she whispered and spun around to look into the hall before turning back to Harry and continuing, “Vernon hasn't woken and I daresay you had better hope he doesn't. Get your belongings and go downstairs. Your clothes.” She hastily dropped a pile of his clean clothes onto his desk and stepped back into the doorframe.

“But how - how do you know it's for me?” Harry asked, his wand still pointed at Aunt Petunia and his eyes trained on the hallway over her shoulder.

His aunt rolled her eyes and replied in the same terse whisper, “The letter said they'd come for you on your birthday. I didn't know they literally meant the moment you turned sixteen.”

“And you didn't think to tell me?” Harry angrily countered, but he felt his indignation ebb away as the anticipation of leaving Privet Drive took over.

“You should be grateful I didn't wake your uncle up for this little reunion,” she spat but quickly resumed her composure. “I'll let them inside; now pack your belongings and hurry. A group of your kind ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night is not my idea of a tea party.” Aunt Petunia turned on her heel and glided noiselessly down the staircase.

Harry stood and listened to the sound of the door opening and the low murmur of voices in the hall before he too turned and began to rapidly gather his possessions and pack them into his trunk while making as little noise possible. He grabbed Hedwig's empty cage and made his way downstairs, making a lot more noise than Aunt Petunia had minutes ago. He tensed as he heard Vernon's snoring falter but continued onward and quickly reached the bottom of the staircase without any more close calls. Harry deposited his belongings in the hall and silently made his way to the kitchen.

The door swung open to reveal a very uncomfortable-looking Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks seated at the kitchen table while Petunia stood by the stove, her arms crossed protectively. A solitary light lit the otherwise pitch-black kitchen, and the sounds of the storm outside were unnaturally loud in the silence of the room. Lupin jumped to his feet when he caught sight of Harry standing in the doorway.

“Harry,” he croaked, “good to see you again.” He sounded ill and his grip felt weak as he shook Harry's hand.

“You too,” he politely replied. “Are you feeling all right?”

Lupin nodded and replied, “Full moon in a few days; this is nothing.” Harry saw Aunt Petunia's eyes widen and comprehension - along with mild horror - dawn across her face at Lupin's words.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks greeted him from her seat at the table.

“Hi, Tonks,” he said. An uncomfortable silence followed his words. For the first time in two months, as he stared at Lupin's sunken features, Harry realised he was not the only one mourning Sirius' death.

“Well, then,” Tonks stated, breaking the silence, “If Harry's ready, we should be leaving.” Lupin seemed to come out of a reverie at Tonks' words; he shook his head slightly and walked over to where Harry was standing.

“We're returning to The Burrow via the Floo Network; Dumbledore has already made the necessary arrangements. Tonks will go first to make sure everything is secure, and she'll report back to us before you leave. I'll close the Floo connection before I Apparate behind you.” Harry nodded and walked through the Dursleys' living room to the hall, where he gathered his trunk and Hedwig's cage. When he returned to the living room, Tonks, Lupin and Petunia were waiting for him. Lupin was bent over the fireplace, removing the fake appliance.

“Fascinating,” Tonks muttered as she examined the fake fire once it was on the floor. Petunia raised an eyebrow at the woman, who in turn cleared her throat and walked purposefully over to Lupin.

“Incendio,” came Lupin's clear incantation and flames immediately burst into life. He removed a small pouch from his pocket and handed it to Tonks, who took a pinch and threw it into the fire before stepping in.

“The Burrow!” she cried and disappeared within seconds.

“She'll contact us soon if everything is safe,” said Lupin in a quiet voice.

“Is there a chance it won't be safe?” asked a worried Harry. In his mind, The Burrow always contained an impenetrable air of safety and comfort. The idea that it may be compromised was one he'd never before considered. He felt both selfish and stupid for not remembering the war raging outside his grief-stricken shell.

“There's always a chance, Harry,” Lupin replied, his answer non-committal and hardly reassuring. In search of a distraction from the bubble of fear growing in his mind, Harry glanced at Aunt Petunia and noted the way she continually turned toward the stairs, as if worried Vernon may come barrelling into the room.

They did not wait long for Tonks' signal; her head popped into the fire and she gave a quick thumbs up before disappearing again. “All right, go on, Harry,” Remus said and held out the pouch. Harry dragged his trunk and Hedwig's cage across the room, took a pinch of the powder and threw it into the fire. He followed Tonks' example and stepped into the flames, dragging his luggage in along with him. He was about to speak when Aunt Petunia's voice interrupted.

“Don't forget what I said,” she called, stepping closer to the fire with a wary glance at the roaring flames.

He nodded and answered, “I'll be careful.” Petunia moved away and leant back against the staircase, watching Harry with a guarded expression. He inclined his head toward Lupin before he exclaimed, “The Burrow!” Harry shut his eyes tightly as he spun around and the familiar dizzy sensation overcame him before he felt himself slowing down. A few moments later, the spinning ended entirely and he opened his eyes as he stepped into the Weasley kitchen.

A loud cry and hurried footsteps echoed around the bright room; Harry turned and suddenly found himself staring into a very familiar pair of brown eyes.

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In a flash, Harry found himself on the receiving end of a hug powerful enough to rival Hagrid's. He stumbled back and grinned faintly at the gesture.

“Harry!” exclaimed Hermione, her voice muffled against his chest. She pulled back abruptly and appeared apprehensive as she scrutinized his features for what Harry suspected were signs of dejection.

“Hermione,” said Harry, “it's great to see you again.” Hermione's concern faded only a little, but she smiled in return nonetheless. She moved to hug him again but seemed to think better of it and instead folded her arms, peering up at him.

Harry was taken aback by how much he suddenly towered over Hermione; he was positive he'd always found himself more or less at her eye-level before this summer. Then again, he was also positive Voldemort held Sirius captive last term, so he was not entirely trusting of his instincts just then. He forced those thoughts from his mind and focused on Hermione, who had been speaking for quite some time.

“…so Tonks left and Mrs. Weasley ran to fetch Ron. Ginny will probably want to say hello if she's not asleep,” she finished.

“All right. Yeah, good,” said Harry, unsure of how to reply. “How's your summer been?”

“Shouldn't I be asking you?” Hermione asked. Harry marvelled at just how quickly she could pull the rug out from under him. He felt stupid and knew he looked the part as he stood silently and stared at her. When Harry didn't reply, she sighed softly and shook her head.

The silence was strained, unlike so many of the other quiet moments Harry had experienced with Hermione. The combination of the new, unsettling atmosphere and Hermione's knowing stare made him feel off-balanced.

“Who else is here?” he asked in an effort to return to safe ground.

“Please don't do this, Harry,” pleaded Hermione, her eyes serious. He knew that look well; she appeared ready to interrogate him.

“We're not talking about it, Hermione,” he warned. Before she could reply, Ron arrived.

He strolled into the kitchen, ducking to avoid a frying pan hanging from the ceiling. Ron, too, seemed impossibly taller as he side-stepped Hermione and reached Harry.

“Hey, Harry,” grinned Ron as he clapped him hard on the back. “Any trouble with the Muggles?”

“None at all,” Harry answered, smiling in return. He glanced at Hermione, whose gaze clearly conveyed annoyance at his evasion. The voice in his head that sounded suspiciously similar to Hermione scolded him. He told it to shut up. “Things all right here, then?” Harry asked. Hermione snorted and Ron rolled his eyes.

“She's been here for a day and she's already angry with me,” said Ron. He turned and scowled at Hermione.

“What'd you do?” asked Harry. Ron looked at Hermione expectantly. Her irritated expression remained intact and her frown deepened.

“I told him we should talk to you about what happened to Sirius,” she said determinedly. Harry wasn't surprised. “Shockingly, he disagrees.”

“If Harry's fine with not talking about it, then we should leave it,” said Ron.

“But he's not fine, Ron! A person doesn't just bounce right back up from an experience like that!” cried Hermione, her voice cracking. Her eyes were wide and pleading, as though she desperately needed Ron to understand.

“Who are you to say whether he's fine or not? Harry is the only one who knows!” exclaimed Ron. He turned and looked to Harry for support.

It was clear they had discussed him at length. Harry was annoyed, but an inexplicable, selfish part of him felt joy at discovering this. He wondered what else they did when he wasn't around, and the thought sent an unexpected jolt of jealousy through his veins.

Harry was in the process of deciphering this feeling when Molly Weasley bustled into the kitchen in her worn dressing gown, interrupting his train of thought.

“Harry, dear! How are you?” Mrs. Weasley asked as she warmly hugged him. Hermione sighed and retreated to a corner of the kitchen. He felt a strange twinge of annoyance when Ron joined her and the two conferred in hushed tones as Mrs. Weasley held Harry tightly.

“Fine, thanks,” replied Harry when she released him. He strained to hear what Ron and Hermione were saying, but they soon nodded in unison and stopped whispering.

“You look as though someone's placed a Stretching Jinx on you!” exclaimed Mrs. Weasley as she stood on her toes and brushed his fringe off his forehead. “You're in dire need of a haircut,” she continued, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and spinning him full-circle. “Those horrible Muggles still aren't feeding you enough-”

“Quit fawning over him already, Mum,” Ron muttered, walking away from Hermione. Mrs. Weasley rapped him sharply on the back of his head. Harry caught Hermione's eye and they struggled very hard to restrain their laughter. He couldn't hide the grin that stretched his face, though, when he saw Hermione smiling from behind her hand. It felt infinitely better to return to familiar land rather than scramble for his footing in the tense atmosphere of moments ago.

“Can I get you anything to eat, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, already half-way toward the stove.

“No, thanks,” said Harry quickly. “Where's Mr. Weasley?”

“Oh, he's still at the office,” Mrs. Weasley answered in an unconvincingly casual voice. “The Ministry is scrambling these days, and they're pulling people from all departments to put out fires across the country…” she trailed off, staring past Harry. He turned around and saw she was looking at the unique clock that showed each Weasley's whereabouts. Every one of its nine hands was pointed at “mortal peril.”

“It's been like that for a while now,” said Ron quietly.

Without warning, the gravity of the situation hit Harry hard. The wizarding world really was at war, and from what Harry could gather, Voldemort was winning. The prophecy returned to haunt him. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as the full weight of his apparent responsibility settled onto his shoulders. At sixteen, he, Harry, was responsible for the outcome of the war and the lives of so many people.

He looked at Mrs. Weasley and noticed her drawn features and the absence of her usual merriment, even when she fussed over him. Ron appeared anxious as he watched the clock, presumable hoping for his father's return. Hermione stared resolutely at the night sky from the small window, lost in thought. They were worried enough without knowing their fate rested in his hands; how could he possibly tell them about the prophecy? Harry desperately needed a distraction from the solemnity of the kitchen.

“I'm a bit tired, actually,” he said, faking a yawn. He met Ron and Hermione's eyes in turn and discreetly nodded toward the stairs.

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, startling Harry. “I don't know why you three are still awake. Fred and George's room is open for you, Harry. They're off in their own flat now, inventing who knows what above their shop,” sighed Mrs. Weasley as she steered Harry, Ron and Hermione out of the kitchen.

She kissed each of them in turn and ushered them up the stairs with the promise of a full breakfast in the morning. On the second landing outside Fred and George's old room, Ron and Hermione bid a false goodnight to Harry, knowing Mrs. Weasley was listening at the bottom of the stairs to ensure they went straight to bed. The three of them quietly made their way to the next landing - where Ron said goodnight to Hermione - before reaching Ron's room on the top level of the house.

Ron ducked to avoid the low ceiling and slouched over to his bed where he collapsed unceremoniously. Hermione followed his lead and perched herself on the edge, motioning for Harry to close the door. He did, and cleared away a pile of Ron's clothes to sit on the floor.

“Did you two ever get into trouble?” whispered Harry once he was comfortable. Seeing Ron and Hermione again made him remember other parts - besides Sirius's death - of their escapade to London. From the time they mounted the thestrals up until the Order's appearance, they had broken more rules than he could possibly count.

“What d'you mean?” replied Ron, sitting up.

“Breaking into the Ministry can't be - well, you know.” Even in the darkness of the bedroom, Harry did not miss the significant glance Ron and Hermione shared.

“Well, no. The Ministry wasn't keen to supply details, for obvious reasons. The Prophet reported an `incident,' but no one has the full story,” said Hermione tentatively.

“I'll bet it hasn't stopped them from speculating,” said Harry darkly. In the past, the Daily Prophet never hesitated to make a story out of him. Perhaps Rita Skeeter was back to her old ways, he thought.

“It's all rubbish,” Ron definitively stated. Harry was inclined to agree. “They've no idea what they're even writing about anymore. The Ministry still has a tight lead on what's reported. They don't want to cause a panic, I suppose.” He paused. “Anything I've heard about the war has come from what Gin and I can gather from Order meetings and listening in on Mum and Dad.”

“Scrimgeour's done nothing to help, though,” noted Hermione.

“Scrimgeour?” asked Harry.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, the new Minister for Magic,” Hermione explained. “He's quite… different from Fudge, but I don't trust him at all.”

“You've never even met him,” said Ron incredulously.

“That doesn't mean I can't have an opinion,” countered Hermione. “He's preventing the Prophet from disclosing the full extent of the war. How are people meant to protect themselves when they don't even know what they're protecting themselves from?” She glared at Ron from her spot on the bed.

Harry personally agreed with her, but he did not think he could handle another argument from Ron and Hermione tonight without snapping. “So Fudge resigned?” he asked, hoping to quell any approaching trouble. It would not do them well to have Mrs. Weasley or any other occupants of the house hear their voices this late into the night.

“Fudge was fired,” said Ron, unable to keep a small amount of joy from his voice. “It happened just after school ended.” Harry figured six students and a multitude of Death Eaters running amuck in the highly-secretive Department of Mysteries was the final straw for the Minister's career.

“And Neville and Luna? Are they all right?” asked Harry. He felt guilty for not writing to either of them over the summer when they'd been just as brave and in danger as himself and the others. He hoped he'd see them on the train ride to Hogwarts and have a chance to thank them for fighting with him.

“They're both doing well,” answered Hermione. “Neville's grandmother is really pleased with him for coming along with us. She even bought him a new wand.” This brought a smile to Harry's face. If anyone deserved a new wand, it was Neville.

His smile dropped suddenly when he realised how close Neville had come to being in Harry's position. What would have happened had Voldemort chosen the Longbottoms' house that night instead of the Potters'? Would Harry be sitting at home with his mother and father, unscarred, wondering about Neville Longbottom, the Boy Who Lived? Could Harry really wish this life on anyone else?

“Luna says The Quibbler's circulation is up ever since your interview,” said Ron, breaking Harry's reverie. “She's still Luna.” Harry heard the amusement in his voice, but it wasn't mocking. He wondered what Luna's father thought of his daughter risking her life with Harry Potter. Would he be proud, as was Neville's grandmother, or would he be furious and worried sick?

Harry wondered if Hermione even told her parents about half the adventures she went on with himself and Ron. Surely they'd forbid her from so much as looking at Harry if they knew the extent of the peril their daughter was in regularly. His insides turned to lead as he truly realised how much danger he had put his friends into by rushing off to the Department of Mysteries that night. He silently vowed to never allow himself to fall prey to one of Voldemort's tricks again, even if it meant taking up Occlumency with Snape once school resumed. The mere idea of it caused Harry to shudder unpleasantly.

There was a lull in the conversation as Hermione leant over and whispered something in Ron's ear, of which Harry only caught, “…he brought up the Department.” Ron surreptitiously glanced at Harry, who braced himself for the inevitable.

“Did something else happen that night, Harry?” asked Hermione quietly, confirming Harry's suspicions. He appreciated their concern, he really did, but he did not want to add fuel to the fire. As his best friends, Ron and Hermione had enough to worry about without the added distress of the looming prophecy.

“Besides my godfather's murder?” replied Harry evasively, ignoring the sick, swooping feeling in his stomach the words produced. Hermione was momentarily stunned, but she quickly latched onto the topic.

“Are you - are you sure there isn't anything else?” she pressed. “You can talk to us, Harry; you know that, right?”

“Sirius died, Hermione. I reckon that's more than enough to be upset about, don't you?” Harry felt horrible for behaving this way when he'd truly rather not argue with Hermione, but his wish for her to just stop talking about it outweighed his guilt.

“We know that, and we're sorry, but-”

“Leave him be,” interjected Ron. Harry felt a wave of gratefulness toward him.

“If he can't tell us, who can he-” began Hermione before Ron interrupted again.

“He obviously doesn't want to talk about it right now,” he barked.

“When is the right time, then?” hissed Hermione hotly.

“I don't think there will be a right time, Hermione,” snarled Harry, having reached his boiling point. He tried desperately to reign in his anger and frustration, but he felt it rapidly slipping from his grasp. “I reckon I've made it glaringly obvious that it's something I don't want to talk about, and it'd be best for all of us if we could just move on to another bleeding topic. O.W.L.s, N.E.W.T.s, whatever you want, Hermione. Just not Sirius.”

Ron appeared apologetic. Hermione - never one to back away from him, he realised - looked primed for a fight but remained silent. Harry was breathing heavily by this time and felt very much like last June's heated fifteen year-old version of himself who smashed his headmaster's possessions and yelled until he was hoarse. Harry didn't want to be that person anymore, but everything about this night was wrong.

Reunions with Ron and Hermione were meant to be all smiles and laughter. They were supposed to be happy to just see each other again, not rip into one another as soon as they were alone. They tossed gnomes and played Quidditch in the garden. They were supposed to be sixteen year-olds who talked about their classmates and bickered occasionally - more than occasionally on Ron and Hermione's part - but they were meant to get along. This wasn't how the three of them operated, and Harry reckoned that Ron and Hermione understood that as they sat in a heavy silence.

The door unexpectedly creaked open and light flooded the room. Ron and Hermione jumped and Harry hardly had time to react before someone spoke.

“What're you lot up to in here?” whispered Ron's younger sister as she stepped into the room. “Oh.” She paused, catching sight of Harry. “Hey, Harry,” she added, smiling.

“Hi, Ginny,” said Harry tiredly, reluctantly scooting toward the bed to make room on the floor. He glanced up at Hermione, who didn't break eye contact. He was positive she was trying to tell him something with her stare, but he felt oddly disconnected from her. It was very disorienting and he fought the urge to growl in frustration.

“What d'you think you're doing?” spat Ron angrily as Ginny shut the door and sat down next to Harry.

“Moving so she could sit,” replied Harry absently, not taking his eyes off Hermione.

“Not you,” said Ron. “We were talking before you scared the bloody hell out of us, Ginny.”

“Don't let me stop you,” she replied coolly, crossing her legs. She smiled at Hermione, looking for support, but found none. Her smile drooped slightly.

“We were talking privately,” insisted Ron.

“Actually, you were arguing,” she said. Harry thought she was on thin ice and wasn't surprised when Ron cursed loudly, causing Hermione to turn from Harry and glare at Ron.

“You were eavesdropping!” exclaimed Ron indignantly.

“It's hardly eavesdropping when you're that loud,” drawled Ginny.

“Get OUT!” Ron roared suddenly as he jumped up from his bed and pointed toward the door. Apparently, Harry wasn't the only one near breaking point that night. Ron looked odd, standing there hunched over in the tiny room. Ginny appeared flabbergasted by her brother's sudden exclamation.

“Ron!” scolded Hermione in a fierce whisper. “Keep your voice down!” Ron rounded on her.

“Keep out of it, Hermione,” he snarled.

“I'm already in it, Ron,” she answered as she, too, leaped off the bed.

“You both need to shut up or we're all going to-” Harry was cut off as Ron's door burst open and the imposing silhouette of Mrs. Weasley appeared in the doorway.

Harry scrambled to his feet as Mrs. Weasley ordered, “Bed! All of you!” Harry knocked his head on Ron's low ceiling and swore loud enough to garner him a reproving stare from Mrs. Weasley and Hermione. He was sure there'd be a large lump in the morning from the two hits he sustained that night alone.

Ron scowled and said, “Thanks a lot, Ginny.” Ginny turned and made a rude gesture with her hand.

“That's enough from you both!” Mrs. Weasley shushed. “Waking the entire household with your arguing,” she muttered as she pushed her daughter toward the door.

Ginny marched out of the room, her head held high. She cast one last discontent look into the bedroom before turning on her heel and stomping down the stairs.

“That applies to the two of you, as well,” Mrs. Weasley said sternly. She steered Harry and Hermione out of the room and shut the door swiftly. Harry heard her slightly muffled scolding through the wood and immediately felt sorry for Ron.

He met Hermione's eyes and they silently descended the stairs. She grabbed his arm when they reached Ginny's closed door and he stopped, turning to face her.

“I didn't mean to upset you earlier,” she whispered.

“I know that,” answered Harry. She crossed her arms and her eyes were steely as she gazed up at him. “I do,” he insisted. “It's just that - well, I don't want to burden you.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “So there is something?” Harry remained silent. “After five years, you still don't understand that you're not a burden on anyone.” Harry snorted disbelievingly and she stepped closer and she grabbed his arms tightly. He sobered and stared down at her intently as she fiercely said, “I don't care what anyone's said in the past, Harry. You're the most wonderful person I know, and there's nothing you could tell me that would change my mind.”

Harry desperately wanted to believe her and tried to say as much but found he could not speak just then. Hermione seemed to understand and pulled him close for a hug, holding him securely.

“You're all right?” she murmured when she let go. Harry nodded.

“I will be,” he replied, and for once, he was sure of it.

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